


too bad (that's all i need)

by beanpod



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Police, Blow Jobs, Come Eating, Come Swallowing, Fucking, Hand Jobs, M/M, Riding, they call each other 'babe' and 'darling' bc i love that thing ok!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-05 13:51:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12191175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beanpod/pseuds/beanpod
Summary: Yixing's laugh is quiet, almost fond. "You're very good at this job, Detective," he says softly.Jongdae is hard-pressed to disagree.





	too bad (that's all i need)

**Author's Note:**

> i.... don't really know. i started writing this back in august and then it grew legs and arms and a whole fucking head and i didn't know how to sTOP. i suck at this sort of AU lmao, i'm sorrY. (am i?) i can't believe my first xingdae ever is this. i swear to god i just wanted to write a pwp, and look at us, 17k later. GAH. i tried to put everything in the tags, let me know if i missed something! uh, good luck reading, i guess?????

"You're a cop," was the first thing Yixing said to him the day they met.

Considering Jongdae had his badge in hand and Baekhyun had _just_ yelled "Seoul PD, nobody move," Yixing wasn't making the brightest of assumptions.

There was a gun on Yixing's desk. That wasn't the biggest deal, though, the thing that had them all gathered here was the USB stick sitting quietly next to the gun with a list of names in the Witness Protection Program that had been stolen from federal grounds and traced to Yixing's office in Yixing's building in the financial district.

"Yes," Jongdae said flatly. "And you're a criminal. You're under arrest."

Suffice to say, they weren't on their best that day.

(Yixing walks. His lawyers argue that it's all circumstantial. There's not even a trial. Jongdae doesn't even have to write a report.

He's angry, furious, when he walks into the interrogation room where Yixing's been sitting for the past hour and finds the asshole smiling pleasantly, exchanging exfoliating tips with the guard that's been assigned to him, laughing like he's not in police custody at three in the goddamn morning.

He smirks at Jongdae when Jongdae takes the cuffs off. Licks his lips. Jongdae wants to punch him, wants to push him over the side of the goddamn chair.

"It's been a pleasure," he says, in that wind-chime type voice he has. "Usually, I like to do the tying-up, but this is a nice change, I suppose."

The guard behind him makes a small choked-off noise that sounds almost like laughter and Jongdae turns a glare at her. Truth is, though, Jongdae was on the verge of choking on his own tongue just now, so it's not like he can be calling anyone on this.

Still, though, he takes a deep breath, keeps his mouth shut, and escorts Yixing out, leading him by the shoulder. He's all muscle and bone under his dress shirt, and Jongdae keeps the touch light, professional, until he has to let go.

Yixing signs on his belongings and throws a wink at Jongdae as he's walking away. "I'll see you around, Detective."

Jongdae fumes for what's left of the day, and then when Baekhyun says, "man, you need to get some," he's horrified when the first thing that pops up in his brain is the soft curve of Yixing's wrists being released from their bindings.)

 

 

 

This is their second meeting:

Yixing's joining someone for lunch—Jongdae's intel recognizes the guy as one Wu Yifan, who's wanted in both Canada and China for charges that Jongdae doesn't have clearance for, which is complete bullshit, honestly—and Baekhyun, the asshole, says, "Let's bug them."

He gets one of the waiters to plant a bug in a platter of breadsticks. Baekhyun says the universe's on their side because neither Yixing nor Yifan touch the sticks and the plate the mic's attached to stays all through their meal.

And then Jongdae reminds him neither of them know fuck all Chinese so the universe is most likely fucking with them.

The first bullet breaks through the front floor-to-ceiling windows, knocks into the bar on the left and a couple of bottles of expensive alcohol shatter in the air. The next thing Jongdae knows he's crouching behind an upended table while Baekhyun covers his six and simultaneously shouts for people to take cover.

Yixing and Yifan crawl under the table, guns out and about. That's not something Jongdae sees every day.

The people trying to do them in are parked right outside the restaurant, shoot at everything that moves. Jongdae fires back a whole round, Baekhyun goes through a clip and a half. Yixing and Yifan alternate and after two and a half minutes of chaos—because Jongdae's learned the hard way that these things don't take long at all—everything quiets, tires screeching on their haste to get away.

Baekhyun's already made a call to dispatch for back-up and ambulances by the time they both get their feet under them.

"I told you this restaurant was shit," Yixing says as he crawls out of the table. Yifan follows close behind with a, "Shut up, you loved their fish," and Baekhyun points his gun at them, "Freeze. Seoul PD. Lower your guns—slowly, that's it, on the floor. Hands where I can see 'em, gentlemen."

It's a whole mess.

Per usual protocol, Yifan and Yixing should be brought in for questioning. The Captain arrives on scene and after a quick chat with Yifan, dismisses Jongdae's request instantly. "Not our problem," Junmyeon says, face grim. "Feds will deal with this."

"Sir," Baekhyun starts.

"Leave it," Junmyeon says. He circles a finger around to encompass the whole mess that is the restaurant. "Wrap up and get back to the station."

He leaves after Jongdae and Baekhyun mutter, "Yes, sir," reluctantly. Baekhyun leaves to find the next officer in line to let them know the Captain's orders, and Jongdae turns around to find goddamn Zhang Yixing and his companion so he can have _words_ with them.

Turns out Yixing's got a bullet graze in the shoulder and has been led to the back of an ambulance for some stitching. Jongdae finds him angrily muttering into his phone, rapid-fire Chinese rolling off his tongue as the paramedic works on him.

"I need to have a word with Mr. Zhang," Jongdae says to her. She nods and steps back after finishing Yixing's dressing and walks away. He looks at Yixing, who's stopped talking on the phone and is watching Jongdae with a calculating expression instead. "Mr. Zhang, may I—"

"How convenient," Yixing says slowly, a smile on his pink mouth, "that you and your partner were in the restaurant."

Jongdae swallows. "Well," he begins. _We've been tailing you for days_ , is not a thing he can say.

"I spotted your little bug a mile away, Detective, I'm no amateur. I am actually a little insulted."

"I—"

"Feel free to spend a solid hour of your time listening to the translation of my conversation with Yifan." For the ice in his voice, Yixing holds up the sweet, innocent smile pretty well. He even throws in the dimple, and Jongdae's fingers itch to poke at it, which is completely fucking preposterous. "I'll save you half the trouble, though, most of our conversation was about the new _Power Rangers_ movie. I'm partial to Billy, Yifan just likes to be contrary," he adds, standing up, shaky on his feet.

His shirt is flapping open, his injured arm held close to his body, and his elbow is scraped, bruising already. It's not—his bare chest is not what Jongdae'd been expecting. He was thinking tattoos, lots of them, scars and the like, but Yixing's skin is ink-free, spotless and fucking _toned_ , slightly pale under the August sun. He makes out the pink of a nipple and swears his mouth goes dry; spots the lines of Yixing's stomach, the bare trail of hair leading downwards, and feels the back of his neck flush and heat.

Despite all that, Yixing looks a lot smaller than he actually is, holding himself gingerly together—for all the sharpness in his voice, Jongdae can tell he's still shaken: his face is pale, his eyes a little too wide, lips bitten red.

Jongdae takes a polite step back as Yixing reaches for his jacket.

"If that's all," he says, and Yifan's next to him in an _instant_ , Jongdae hadn't even heard him approach. He helps Yixing with his jacket and not once spares Jongdae a glance. "I need a drink," Yixing goes on, his mouth twisting into a scowl, "so I'm gonna go get it now. Good day, Detective. Feel free to tail me all the way to my place if you want."

 

 

 

He was telling the truth. Minseok rolls his eyes as he translates the first half of the conversation, made mostly of Yifan's voice throwing shade on the _Power Rangers_ reboot and Yixing retorting in a high-pitched offended tone. He _is_ partial to Billy, and Yifan _is_ contrary, and Jongdae is half tempted to tell Minseok not to bother with the rest when Minseok lifts a hand, "Wait, hold on, there's more."

Jongdae sits back on the chair, "What is it?"

Minseok bursts out laughing the next second. "Oh, god, they're talking about _you_."

Jongdae stares. "What?"

Minseok waves a hand to shush him, mid-cackle. "Oh, god," he wheezes, hitting pause on the tape. "Yifan said _'those two cops—the ones that look like teenagers—just tried to bug us?'_ , and Yixing replied, _'I appreciate the enthusiasm'_." He laughs some more, presses play, and Jongdae, for the second time today, feels like a chastised child, embarrassed and upset at having been caught.

"Okay, that's enough—"

"No, wait, Yifan just called you ' _real good-looking_ '." Minseok laughs again, clutching at the chord of his headphones. Jongdae groans. "And Yixing just—oh, wow, how do I even translate this—"

His laughter is faltering but he still looks so full of glee that Jongdae feels offended. "What did Zhang say?"

Five seconds of silence, and then Minseok clears his throat. "He said, and I quote word for word, _'I really wouldn't mind sitting on his cock, those pants hide nothing'_."

The room is very quiet for a while. Minseok taps his fingers on his desk, not looking at Jongdae, and Jongdae stares at the screen of his computer, at the track that is made of Yifan's and Yixing's conversation. He swallows, feels his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth a beat too long.

"Okay," he says slowly.

"Right," Minseok throws back.

Jongdae runs a hand through his hair. "Anything else?"

Minseok takes a deep breath. "There's something about your thighs looking strong enough to hold him up against a wall. Made an impression, huh, Jongdae?"

"Oh my god," Jongdae groans, covering his face, mortified. Minseok laughs so hard his chair tips to the side.

 

 

 

Yixing's building in the financial district is one of the tallest, sleekest-looking ones. His office is at the very top, 73rd floor, and the only way to get in (now that he knows the police could come knocking any time of day) is through the tiny, perky receptionist in the lobby.

Jongdae almost believes he's going to get kicked out the front glass doors as soon as he tells her his name and occupation, but she speaks into her ear-piece and then says, "Seventy-third floor. Mr. Oh will escort you," and smiles at the guy suddenly to Jongdae's right with a nod.

"Follow me," Mr. Oh says, who, by the way, looks a hell of a lot younger than Jongdae, so he's not going to call him _mister_. Fuck that.

"Right," Jongdae says, and then follows the kid—because he has the face of one—to the lifts.

The ride up is spent in silence. The kid stands by the console the whole time and Jongdae chooses the furthest corner, only so he can see both the door and the kid in case he tries something. Which he doesn't; in fact, all he does is stand there—in parade rest, too, which isn't lost on Jongdae—and stare straight ahead until the doors ping open at the seventy-third floor.

"This way," he says, voice deep even for his young face.

Yixing smirks behind the document he's reading when the kid leads Jongdae into his office.

"Thank you, Sehun," Yixing says without looking up from the papers on his desk. "Detective Kim Jongdae," he continues as he stands.

And then he looks up.

They haven't really seen each other since the restaurant. Jongdae's mind flashes back to the translation Minseok emailed him, the _whole_ translation, because Minseok is a jerk and he enjoys watching Jongdae squirm. _Wouldn't mind sitting on him_ flashes across his mind and his fingers twitch a little as they hang limply at his sides. There's more, Yixing's soft vowels in Chinese saying, _'but look at that mouth, come on, Yifan, I'm only fucking human here'_ , and Jongdae's teeth itch.

Yixing regards him with a smirk, like he knows, like he remembers what he said—because why wouldn't he—and the way his eyes slowly travel down Jongdae's body feels heavy, heated, like a caress, leaves Jongdae winded, the bottom of his stomach dropping dangerously. He clears his throat and Yixing looks up, soft and sharp as ever, his mouth a tiny, tilted curve.

It takes Jongdae by surprise, the cockiness in his posture, his expression, even when Yixing sends Sehun away and gestures to the leather chair in front of his desk.

"What can I do for you?" he asks, eyes glinting.

Jongdae doesn't sit. His mouth is dry, the inside of his chest too tight. "You can start by confessing to the hit sent to Prosecutor Park Kwangjun a few days ago."

Yixing makes a snorting sound, sitting back down on his huge chair, unbothered. "You mean the man who secretly runs a prostitution ring on the side of his outstanding political career, has a fetish for underage girls, and makes cuts and takes bribes from the low-lives of this city? That Kwangjun?"

He blinks up at Jongdae, the picture of composed calmness. Smiles, teeth, dimple and all. "Sure, I confess. Where do I sign?"

"What—"

"Let me tell you something, Detective Kim," Yixing stands again, so fast and smooth that Jongdae takes an instinctual step back while palming the side of his hip to find his holster. Yixing merely rolls his eyes at him as he circles his desk and goes to stand by the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city spreads beneath them in shades of black and blue and twinkling lights. "I care about this city. I don't like it when people with power and money come into it and think they can do as they please. You don't come into a man's home and disrespect it, do you?"

Jongdae, despite himself, lets out a shrill sounding cackle. "Are you referencing _The Godfather_ right now?"

Yixing turns around to face him, grins. "Call me a cliché, if you will." The cut of his shirt is sharp, not a wrinkle out of place, even if the top two buttons are undone and his sleeves are rolled up to the elbows.

And that's just it, isn't it, Yixing doesn't look the part. He _isn't_ a cliché. He has never been involved in any criminal activities and yet there are enough traces of him _everywhere_ to know he was the hand that decked the cards. He comes from old Chinese money, _clean_ money; the building he owns is so echo-friendly the Discovery Channel made a two-hour special on it last summer, he donates to charity (both domestic and foreign) on a weekly basis, his corporation dabs in real state, scientific development, environmental law, public education _and music_ , he pays his taxes on the dot and doesn't have a single fucking parking ticket to his name.

And at the same time, he's "taken care" of the worst thugs and criminals in the city—not in the most sensible way, granted—but he's never intentionally gone after someone that hadn't had it coming. And yet there's no trace, not enough evidence, _nothing_ to arrest him.

Jongdae's spent a solid year trying to dig something— _anything—_ on this guy, and all he's got is sleepless nights, a half-assed case file and a seriously grumpy partner. He's angry, but he's also fucking impressed and that just makes him angrier.

Angry, but not stupid.

"I didn't send out that hit," Yixing says, lastly.

He's not a cliché.

Jongdae finds himself nodding, "I know."

 

 

 

A cop's daughter goes missing a few weeks after The Incident That Involves a Confession That _Wasn't_ Which I Forgot to Report But It's Been Too Long Now So Why Would I. He works in Traffic and Jongdae's never really talked to him, but the whole station buzzes with barely-contained jitters and anger.

The media says it's local gangs, says it's human trafficking, says it's just a teenager running away from home.

Just to make sure—because that's all this is, Jongdae is just doing his job, the job he worked hard to get—he visits Yixing, drives all the way downtown in the middle of the day and follows Sehun into and out of the elevator without a word.

"Twice in a month," Yixing says as Jongdae walks into his office. "I'm beginning to think you have a crush on me, Detective."

Jongdae rolls his eyes so hard his head hurts. "Of course you are."

Yixing gestures to the chair. "Please, sit. Want anything to drink?"

"No, thank you, I'm fine," Jongdae says, sitting. When Yixing makes a gesture for him to go on, Jongdae says, "A girl's gone missing. Last seen by her friends at a karaoke place down in Cheongdam."

"Ah," Yixing says. He's wearing the simplest clothes Jongdae's ever seen him wear, blue sweater, washed-out jeans, Chucks. His hair's a mess, shaggy and slightly unkempt. He looks like a regular guy does on a regular Saturday morning. It's honestly disconcerting. He's not sure he _should_ be seeing Yixing like this, out of his dangerously sharp business suits and styled hair.

He looks, Jongdae thinks distantly, strangely vulnerable.

Yixing tilts his head to the side. "You realize that particular side of the city is, uh, how do I put it, out of my _domain_?"

"She's a cop's daughter. The guy's been working in Traffic for nearly forty years. He's waiting for the time to collect his meagre pension and live a quiet, homey life. I doubt he's got beef with the mafia."

"Sometimes, the most unassuming people have more to do with us than you know," Yixing says, careful. Jongdae wonders if he knows what he just said qualifies as a confession. Wonders if Yixing has confessed to being who he _is_ , twice now, on purpose; if he knows Jongdae hasn't reported it, or told anyone about it, for that matter.

Yixing sighs, "It's a difficult situation, I'm sure, but I don't think I can help you with this."

Jongdae swallows and taps his fingers on the armrest. "I've done some digging, you know." Yixing looks up from the papers he's signing and Jongdae leans forwards on his thighs. Yixing's eyes go hazy and Jongdae swallows again, painful this time. "Look, I know you bought a whole block of properties in Cheongdam about a week ago. That karaoke place I've told you about just now? Smack in the middle of that block, who would've thought."

"Huh." Yixing sits back, pen between his teeth, the coy look on his face all but gone. These flickering versions of him make Jongdae's temples ache. Yixing lets out another sigh, drawn-out, almost bored. "Well, that changes things, I suppose." He regards Jongdae calmly for a moment, puts the pen down, and Jongdae fights the need to fidget under the scrutiny. "What do you want from me?"

And isn't that the fucking question of the century.

Yixing agrees to help out. The karaoke place manager, who refused to hand over security camera videos without a warrant when first approached, delivers the tapes to the station himself. Yixing texts him ( _texts_ him, and Jongdae, to this day, still doesn't know how the fucker got hands on his personal number):

_Security feed checked by my people, a couple of names popped from the facial recognition. Will handle it.  
-ZYX._

Jongdae doesn't know what to make of it, but then a few hours later two agents escort the missing girl into the station, say they were tipped off by a university student who'd seen a strange looking car outside her building. The girl is lead into the infirmary and a few minutes after that a couple of cuffed guys looking worse for wear walk in, Sargent Lee leading each into an empty interrogation room to the pleased buzz of the whole precinct.

They say they received cash payments and a note, which comes clear of prints or traces. Their versions check out and they're thrown into the system, faster than any case that's been put together, and Jongdae stares at his phone, debates on whether to text Yixing back or just stay put.

Baekhyun says, "Let's go out to get drinks," and out they go, and if Jongdae drunkenly texts Yixing a _Thank you_ while he's getting ready for bed later that night, no one needs to find out.

 

 

 

 _They all slip up at some point_ , the Captain says. He calls Baekhyun and Jongdae into his office, doors closed, and asks about Zhang Yixing. "You two spend way too much time on the guy, so, come on, I wanna know what you've got on him."

It's not much. Honestly, it's a big pile of nothing. And yet Junmyeon _knows_ , because everyone and their grandmothers know at this point, who Yixing is and the rumors about him, and yet.

Nothing to pin on the guy. Except—

"How about a bug?" the Captain asks. He's got his arms folded over his chest, not upset but clearly a little on the off side.

Baekhyun shakes his head. "We tried that already, didn't work."

"How about a mole?" Junmyeon asks.

"They're too close-knit, they'd see it coming a mile away," Jongdae says.

"Then I'm out of ideas, guys," Junmyeon sighs. He nods at Jongdae. "You went to see him few weeks ago, didn't you? Learn anything?"

_Except—_

Jongdae swallows. Holds the Captain's gaze. "No, sir."

Baekhyun, bless his heart, doesn't say anything about it.

 

 

 

"They all slip up at some point," the Captain repeats a week later, and hands them a file, a case. Body found by the river. Nothing on him out of the ordinary except for a single business card. With Yixing's name on it.

The second week of November is cold. Jongdae holds his coat closer to his body as he walks into the lobby of Yixing's building and then through the cold elevator ride, since there's no Sehun to keep him awkward but quiet company this time.

Kim Jongin's waiting for him when he steps out of the elevator. Jongin used to be in the army. He's deadly behind the scope of a rifle and he's even deadlier in close combat. In his time of service, there are a hundred and fourteen confirmed kills to his name—that's official information only; the number goes up the second his black ops information comes into the equation. That's classified, though, and Jongdae doesn't have clearance.

Jongdae knows what little he knows because there's a file on every single member (at least the ones they know of) of Yixing's team—clan? circle? ring? syndicate?—and if they're filed in order on who's the most dangerous one, Jongin would be at the very top.

That's the only thing they know about Jongin, though; other than that, he's just a retired military officer slash law-abiding citizen with a permit to carry guns.

Jongdae spots two of those, concealed under Jongin's gray suit. And if those are the ones Jongdae can see, he doesn't even want to know where the ones he _can't_ are.

Yixing's walking out of a conference room across the floor—it's fucking _wild_ when their eyes meet, Jongdae has to admit, blood simmering under his skin, can't find the words to explain the turmoil that takes residence in his chest at the sight of Yixing's pleased little smile—when the elevator next to the one Jongdae just came out of pings open and a guy dressed in black walks out.

Jongdae doesn't realize until it's too late. A bullet rings through the air and Yixing yells at him across the room to get fuck down, and for the first time in the time they've known each other, Jongdae actually does as he's told. He goes right as Jongin goes left, guns out, and it's so chaotic Jongdae has trouble keeping up.

" _Fuck_ —" he yells over his shoulder as he crouches behind an upended couch. People around him are taking cover behind walls, columns, under desks, _so much chaos_.

"This happens every Tuesday," Jongin whines from somewhere in the room. Shots are being fired and Jongdae—the _one_ time he goes out without his gun and badge, for fuck's sake—tries to curl into a tinier ball in order to stay _alive_. "Boss-man gets someone pissed over art or music or, hear this, _bunnies_ , and we end up getting shot at." He sounds bored, unimpressed with the situation, the masked guy firing round after round from behind a huge flower-pot.

"That was _one_ time," Yixing grumbles loudly from somewhere. Jongdae doesn't have a direct line of sight but he could bet his badge the asshole is pouting. "Are we done playing here or what, Jongin? My pants are all stained. Please don't get blood on my carpets."

"I swear you make my life hell," Jongin sighs.

There's a single extra shot and the room goes dead quiet. Jongdae peeks over the edge of the couch and finds Jongin inspecting the chamber of his gun like it's a thing he does every morning with his coffee. Which he probably does, who knows.

"I only do it to keep you on your toes, sweetie." Yixing stands up from where he was taking cover behind a fallen bookcase. Sehun's right next to him, gun in hand, hair a mess.

There's a body. It's the guy that came firing. No one else is hurt. And by no one, Jongdae means the other three people that were in the room besides Jongin, Yixing, Sehun and himself. No one's hurt or bleeding, only slightly shaky, and, in Yixing's case, extremely fucking grumpy because there's blood on his carpets. It's a little cute.

"What the fuck was that," Jongdae asks, waving in the general direction of the dead body a few feet away from the elevators.

Yixing looks at him, scowl in place. "Just a regular Tuesday, Detective. I think this is when you call for back-up."

(The Captain is furious. "You went to see him unarmed and nearly got yourself killed," he says, sounds so disappointed that Jongdae has to look down because it's _too much_. "You're off the case," he says next, and Jongdae opens his mouth to argue but Junmyeon's already gone.

Jongdae drops on his chair and puts his elbows on his desk, buries his face in his hands.

"Fuck," he whispers to no one in particular.)

 

 

 

Jongdae's been telling himself to make good life choices since his talk with the Captain a few days ago, because he got lucky with just being kicked out of the case instead of getting kicked out of _the force_ , but Baekhyun's finally agreed to share the information he's got access to with him and it's not good.

It all feels… fishy. The cop in him wants to barge into the Captain's office and demand what's going on. The other part—admittedly a larger one—wants to warn Yixing.

Eventually one wins out, as it always does.

Jongin leads the way into the office, raps his knuckles on the doorframe.

"Detective," Yixing says as pleasant as ever, though the curve of his jaw is tense. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Jongin stays by the door. He's in parade rest—what's that saying about military men and never taking the life out of them?—and he's assessing Jongdae like he's figuring out the easiest way to dispose of him without spilling much blood.

"I was hoping we could speak in private," Jongdae says, spares a glance to Jongin.

"We _are_ in private. Jongin is part of the décor." Yixing smiles, sharp, and gestures to the chair in front of his desk. "Why don't you take a seat? May I offer you a drink?"

Jongdae's eyebrows arch. "It's ten in the morning. And I'm on duty." Which is, technically, still true.

Yixing grins, points a finger at him. "I meant coffee or tea, even water, but I absolutely _love_ alcohol is where your mind went first. You're full of surprises, aren't you?"

Jongin snickers and tries to disguise it as a cough. Jongdae rolls his eyes and takes a seat. "I don't like this décor of yours," he murmurs.

Yixing snorts. "Trust me, he doesn't like you either." He sits up straight, elbows on his desk. "So," he says, wetting his lips. "What can I help you with? I'm rather busy trying to figure out why I got shot at in my goddamn office a few days ago. The carpeting's been a bitch to get redone."

Jongdae reaches into his pocket and pulls his phone out. He can literally feel Jongin tensing behind him, a whole room across from him. It's eerie.

"When I came to see you, that day, I came to ask you something." He pulls up the picture he'd taken at the crime scene. He hands it over to Yixing. "A body showed up earlier this week, east side of the river. Male, fifties, no prints in the system, no missing-person report found. Cause of death confirmed to be a single shot to the back of the head, execution style."

"I've never seen this man before," Yixing says, curtly, and the lie stretches between them like a too-tight string, ready to snap at any second.

Jongdae levels a look at him. "Yixing," he starts, wants to take it back as soon as it's out because he's never used Yixing's name before, but he can't now—and anyway, Yixing's head snaps up at the sound of his name, which means Jongdae has his attention now. "He had a business card with your name on it in one of his pockets."

Yixing freezes. "Excuse me?"

"He had around a hundred bucks in cash, a bunch of Thai take-out receipts, and your card." Jongdae takes the phone back and swipes right to another picture. He turns the phone for Yixing to see.

Yixing barely glances at it. "Doesn't prove I know him," he says carefully. His eyes leave Jongdae briefly to look over his shoulder, and when Jongdae turns around, Jongin's on his phone, a distressed look on his face. Yixing addresses Jongdae again, asks, "What else do you know?"

Jongdae looks away, wincing a little. "Well—" he starts.

"I don't like your tone," Yixing says.

Very reluctantly, Jongdae admits, "I'm not officially on the case."

Yixing takes a deep breath, takes his time with the exhale. He nods at Jongin. "Leave," he says. "It's okay," he adds when Jongin makes a sound that implies it's anything but okay, and leaves shortly after some apparent telepathic conversation that Jongdae isn't privy to.

"You're telling me," Yixing starts after a moment of silent consideration, "that you somehow—illegally, I'm assuming—got those pictures from the crime scene and decided to share them with the first and only suspect? Is that what you're trying to tell me, Jongdae?"

Jongdae's lips purse. He lifts both hands, ready to defend himself. "Okay, first of all, I didn't get those illegally, I was still on the case when I took them. Second of all, I know you didn't do it."

That makes Yixing's mouth curl into a half-smile. "Is that so?"

"It's not the way you do things," Jongdae says, holding Yixing's gaze.

"You know a lot about me, don't you?" Yixing asks.

Jongdae sighs. "I'm not here to play the bullshit game we usually play, alright? I know that if, for some reason, that man had it coming, a shot to the head and a swim isn't the way you'd have it done. You're a criminal but you're not a cliché."

"I don't know whether to be offended or flattered." Yixing stands up slowly, and Jongdae sits back on the chair, scoffing. Yixing wets his lips again and moves to the tiny bar he has by the window. He pours a finger of scotch in a couple of glasses and hands one to Jongdae.

"Is it poisoned?" Jongdae asks flatly as he takes it.

"I sure fucking hope not or that'd mean someone's trying to do me in both from the inside and the outside, and wouldn't that be just fucking peachy." Yixing knocks his drink back, doesn't even wince as he swallows. His throat's a nice, lean line.

Jongdae takes a swig of his, averting his eyes. "Someone's trying to frame you."

"That would seem to be the case, yes," Yixing agrees. He hesitates and then takes a seat on the chair next to Jongdae's, elbows on his thighs, his glass cradled in between. His gaze is far away. "It's been happening for a while."

Jongdae tenses. "What?"

"The question here is why aren't you on the case?" Yixing counters, turning to look at him levelly. "For the past year, you've been literally on my ass—and not in a sexy way, sadly—" (Jongdae chokes on his drink but covers it pretty well with a cough. It convinces _no one_ ) "—trying to prove I've had people killed all over the city—people who, by the way, had it coming, so you're very fucking welcome—and now, suddenly, the one time a case might have a solid lead you're, what, benched? Where's Byun in all this?"

Jongdae's cheeks feel so fucking warm. It's definitely the drink, yes. "It's complicated."

"Uncomplicate it or leave." Yixing waves a hand at the door vaguely, like he's only saying it for show, and Jongdae caves.

"Fine," he sighs. "I got kicked out because I came over here with information about an on-going investigation and got in the middle of an assassination attempt that resulted in an ex black-ops not being pressed with charges, a dead body that hasn't been identified yet, and a shitload of paperwork that your lawyers keep pushing back.

"Sure, I came in my own free time, with no badge or gun, but you still were the lead suspect, so on and off the record I had absolutely no business coming to see you." He stands up, leaves his half-full glass on the desk with a loud noise, starts to pace. "I figured, 'oh, well, I owe the asshole a big one after the whole missing-girl thing'."

Jongdae rounds on him, "Did you know the investigation hasn't left the department? The case hasn't had any media coverage. That shit just doesn't happen; a body shows up, the media is _right there_ with more information than us, most of the time." He sighs, upset. "They're covering it up."

Yixing takes his time to think that over.

"Did you just call me an asshole?" he asks. Jongdae shrugs a shoulder and Yixing makes a face like, _fine, okay, I'm an asshole sometimes_. He blows a breath. "Is that all?"

Jongdae nods. "All I know, anyway. All I could get Baekhyun to tell me without getting him in trouble, too."

"That's real nice of you," Yixing says with a tiny, tired smile, runs a hand down his face, and then calls, "Jongin," and Jongin shows up not two seconds later, tablet in hand, phone in the other. It all happens so fast that Jongdae startles almost out of his own skin. Yixing sighs. "Call Luhan, will you, tell him to bring his team. And, uh, also Yifan, I'm gonna need his help. Tao, too—fuck, that little bitch is gonna hold this over my head for years. _Years._ " He groans. "Just. Call everyone. And get me an aspirin."

"You got it." Jongin leaves as fast as he walked in.

"Right," Yixing says, smacks his lips. "Okay. In the spirit of full disclosure." He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket—Jongdae should be worried, _should_ be concerned, should think Yixing's about to pull a gun and kill him dead, should do _so many things_ —and retrieves his phone.

"I received this message a few days ago." He holds the phone up for Jongdae to take. The man in the picture is in his fifties probably, pale, almost blue, most definitely dead. It's the man found by the river. "That's my uncle. Not by blood, but back home—we call older men, older men we're close to and respect, we call them 'uncle'. Much like here. We're not related, but I cared for him very much. I had no idea he was in town. If I'd known…" he trails off, shrugging, stroking his temple absently.

Jongdae looks up from the picture. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Yixing nods, another tired smile on his face, and takes his phone back. He looks _so_ tired, all of a sudden, older, slightly bent out of shape, like the past few days have been hell, and Jongdae wants to ask, wants to _know_ , but just stays quiet. Yixing looks at Jongdae again, expression guarded.

"They're sending me a message. The whole thing with the pen drive, and then with the fucking shoot-out when I was out for lunch. I gotta admit, it was pretty impressive. I mean, they almost got me, so kudos to them, right?" He runs a hand through his hair. "Yifan is sure the hit was for him but there's no way of knowing. He's helping the feds with a drug investigation, he thinks they were trying to shut him up."

"Ballistics said the slugs were definitely Chinese made." Jongdae tries to think of another detail but nothing comes to mind.

Yixing chuckles. "Yeah, that narrows it down, doesn't it?" He sighs, leaning back on his chair, head thrown back so he can look at the high ceiling. "When you came waltzing into my office talking about a missing girl, it all made sense. What a coincidence, that just a week after I buy a whole block of property, this girl, who's daughter to an outstanding police officer, gets kidnapped."

"You dealt with that, though, didn't you?" Jongdae hadn't read the report. Hyukjae had filled the paperwork and the case had been done with and everyone had moved on.

"That's why Jongin's here, actually," Yixing says, nodding to the door. "He deals with that kind of grab-and-run thing? He went down there, worked his mojo, and things got done. I haven't asked. Don't really want to, if I'm honest." After a moment, he asks, "The girl's okay, though, right?"

"She is," Jongdae assures.

Yixing nods back. He looks vulnerable for a second, and in the next blink of his eyes it's gone. He presses his lips together. "And then last week, right? Some motherfucker comes into my office and shoots at me, gets a shit-ton of stuff broken and splintered, bleeds all over my expensive carpet, and has the nerve to _die_." Yixing huffs, shaking his head. "Young people these days, I swear."

"Jongin shot him," Jongdae points out.

"Details," Yixing grumbles in reply.

"Who's trying to get rid of you?" Jongdae asks. "Who've you pissed off lately?"

"Fuck if I know," Yixing says, throwing his hands up. "But don't worry," his smile is half of what it usually is, yet it manages to be as sharp as a knife, "we're working on it."

("You realize you've given me a confession? Just now?" Jongdae asks while taking the last sip of his second drink.

Yixing grins at him, sprawled all over the chair next to Jongdae's. He clinks their glasses together. "I've been doing it for a while, Jongdae, do try to keep up, babe.")

 

 

 

There are no leads. Much like with trying to get dirt on Yixing, trying to get dirt on whoever's trying to get at him is a dead-end. The suspect list is too wide, too narrow at turns. Yixing texts him and says Jongin's narrowing it down. Yifan's talking to his contacts in China. Tao's keeping an ear and eye out in dark corners of the city for anything that might come up.

He tells Baekhyun. The whole thing. Tells him he went and told Yixing all about it—gave him all the facts they had, unless until Jongdae got kicked out of the case.

Baekhyun regards him quietly. It's uncharacteristically thoughtful, the look he sends Jongdae's way.

"You like him," he says.

Jongdae sputters for about ten seconds but can't come up with anything, a lie.

"You _like_ like him," Baekhyun says, and then, a lot cheekier, "I hope you know what you're doing, I'd hate to think of you as one of those mafia trophy-wives, you just don't have the bone structure, you know," but Jongdae only takes it half to heart.

 

 

 

Baekhyun texts him on his day off, sends, _Turn on the news_ and Jongdae drags himself out of bed towards the living room, hair sticking up in odd directions, scratching at his stomach under his shirt. It's barely past seven and Jongdae had made plans to sleep in till eleven at the very least and now he's cranky.

He finds CNN and feels his insides go cold, all senses going hyperaware. There's a picture of some politician—Jongdae's seen him before but his brain is still mush and all he can register is the anchor saying, "—enough evidence on Prosecutor Park Kwangjun's illegal activities, including the kidnapping of police officer Jun Donwoo's daughter last October and an assassination attempt made on the CEO of Zhang Corp multiple times this year—"

It's a little after nine when he parks outside Yixing's building. The press is wild at the lobby and Jongdae, for once, stays in his parking spot instead of going up.

He calls Yixing, says, "So, I was watching the news this morning."

Yixing is smug through the phone. "Anything interesting happening?"

"Global warming, the system being corrupt, but what’s new," Jongdae says. "I bet you're really busy right now, so—"

"Surprisingly, I'm not," Yixing chuckles.

"You're not dealing with it?"

Yixing tsks his tongue, "I pay people to do stuff for me, you know. My lawyers are handling it. I've been told to stay put and not go outside. The words _'just sit there and look pretty'_ were used."

"You're not in your office?"

"I'm half tempted to take this whole line of questioning as concern for my well-being, you know."

Jongdae lets out a hearty chuckle. "You would."

"I'm also half tempted to ask you to come over to my place for brunch, but you might say no and I've already dealt with enough disappointment today."

Jongdae says nothing.

He runs his thumb over the side of the steering wheel, picks at the logo with a fingernail. This thing they do where they flirt but don't—have been ever since they met—has Jongdae's nerves fraying at the ends, his heart ticking out of rhythm every time Jongdae lays eyes on him, every time he _thinks_ of Yixing.

Baekhyun's words from a few weeks ago resonate in his head, and even though Jongdae's been avoiding thinking about them altogether, this time he lets his guard down for two seconds and they make heat rise in his stomach and spread all around him. Jongdae's never asked about that conversation with Yifan—hasn't really had the time (or balls) to—but suddenly he wants to, wants to ask Yixing if he was being honest about everything he said or if he was just fucking with Jongdae because he knew he was listening or maybe both. Jongdae seriously wouldn't put it past him.

So, the real question here is, would Yixing ask him to come over right now, what would Jongdae's answer be.

Yixing clears his throat. Jongdae's glad he's not around to see his face flush.

"Kwangjun came to see me, once. Offered me a cut of his 'winnings'. Way before he started sending all these mixed signals about wanting me dead." Yixing sighs, breath crackling through the line.

"Let me guess, you told him to fuck off." Jongdae looks back at the lobby. It's the same as it was ten minutes ago. He starts the engine; might as well get back to the station and finish paperwork.

Yixing's laugh is quiet, almost fond. "You're very good at this job, Detective," he says softly.

Jongdae is hard-pressed to disagree.

 

 

 

For the next three weeks, the station goes into a frenzy of press releases, citations and interrogations. Yixing walks in on a Wednesday, right around Jongdae's lunch hour, and is lead into interrogation room number three. For all the evidence they have on the prosecutor, his lawyers are armed to the teeth and every step forwards equals two backwards and, at this point, it's just a game of waiting, revising leads, and questioning the right people.

The Captain's at the end of his patience. Which mostly means that when Jongdae knocks on his door and asks if he can lead the interrogation of one Zhang Yixing, Junmyeon just rolls his eyes in response and waves a hand that signals either a 'yes' or a 'fuck you, go away' before going back to his computer's screen.

It's not a _no_.

Jongdae sits in front of Yixing and tries not to smile too wide, because there are two other detectives looking through the one-way mirror and he's got a reputation to maintain.

Yixing's a treat through the whole questioning. He answers diligently and not once calls for his lawyer. He drives Jongdae up the fucking wall with all this innocent posturing—though he is, in essence, innocent—and the lip-biting-and-licking he does every time he pretends to be thinking about his answers, looking at Jongdae through his eyelashes.

Jongdae realizes he does like the asshole sitting in front of him when Yixing says, sotto voice, "You already asked me that, Detective," and can't find it in himself to be pissed as all fucks for the cheek.

Strangely enough, the realization doesn't feel like the end of the world.

 

 

 

Jongdae's coming home after a gruesome shift one night to find Yixing sitting casually on the stoop of Jongdae's building, like this is a thing he does every Thursday night, sit on random places while wearing clothes that, at simple glance, could cost more than what Jongdae makes in a month.

The asshole is just lucky it hasn’t snowed in days.

"Mr. Zhang—"

"We're way past that, Jongdae, come on," Yixing says, smiling that calm smile he always smiles. It's starting to look like what it used to back when there wasn't a price on his head. He pulls himself to his feet, dusts his ass off and shoves his hands in his pockets. "I need to have a word with you, but I'm afraid my phone might be, uh, _monitored_."

Jongdae's eyebrows rise. "What—"

"Not by the police, by my team," Yixing says, quick. "On my request. But that's not what I'm here to talk about."

"What is it, then?" Jongdae asks. He crosses both arms over his chest, expectant.

"I'd prefer not to talk about it where anyone could listen. It defeats the whole purpose, you know."

Jongdae lets out a disbelieving laugh. "You seriously don't expect me to invite you into my _home_."

Yixing rolls his eyes. "You really think I couldn't have broken in? I'm being the bigger person here, respecting boundaries and shit."

"Very mature of you, yes," Jongdae deadpans.

Jongdae doesn't know how it happens. One second he's arguing with Yixing about whatever it is the jerk's come here to say but isn't talking about yet and the next one he's pushing the door to his apartment open while apologizing to Mrs. Choi for the noise and repeatedly telling her Yixing isn't his boyfriend and that they aren't having a fight and ushering said not-boyfriend in by the back of his jacket.

"He just doesn't tell me he loves me anymore," Yixing whines as they walk in, and Mrs. Choi tsks her tongue with a, "Now, Jongdae, that's no way to treat your boyfriend. Apologize right now, young man."

"He's not, we're not, we're fine, we're totally fine," Jongdae says for the hundredth time, swatting a hand to smack Yixing anywhere he can reach to shut the giggling fucker up, the other one placatingly held towards Mrs. Choi, "thank you for your concern, we're fine, yes, good night."

Yixing's smugness is thick in Jongdae's tiny living room. He's sitting on Jongdae's couch, the one in front of the TV, and he's grinning, mirth attached to the corner of his eyes, glee on the stretch of his lips. He's blushed pink, whether from the cold or the wrong assumptions of Jongdae's neighbor, Jongdae doesn't know, and a tiny corner of himself thinks he'd like to get close enough and find out. He's out of his coat—hanged it himself in the line of hooks behind Jongdae's front door—and he's wearing jeans and a soft-looking green sweater.

He looks _good_ and it claws at Jongdae, deep into his bones.

"Lovely woman," Yixing says.

"She's gonna ask about you non-stop now," Jongdae complains, hanging his own jacket on the back of a stool. He barely means it, though. He leans against the breakfast bar, "What did you want to talk to me about?"

It's like the past—begrudgingly admitted—hilarious, giggly ten minutes haven't happened. Yixing's eyes become guarded and his shoulders tense briefly before it's gone in the next exhale.  

"I just, I wanted to thank you. Without having the police looking through a glass or Jongin breathing down my neck. Or Tao listening to my calls or reading through my texts and emails."

"You have nothing to thank me for," Jongdae says, as serious as he can.

Yixing rolls his eyes. "I thought we were past the bullshit game."

"We are," Jongdae confirms. "I mean it, you have nothing to thank me for, I'm just trying to do my job."

Yixing's eyes crinkle in confusion but he says nothing. Jongdae raises an eyebrow at him and Yixing sighs, sitting back more comfortably into the side of the couch. Like he's making himself at home. Jongdae tries really hard not to think about that or how okay with it he unexpectedly is.

"Let's be really honest for a second here, yeah?" Yixing says, cautious, gesturing to the space between them. "You know who I am. You _know_. You know all your theories are true. I've been confessing non-stop for the past few months. So, what's this, Jongdae? Are you a rebellious cop? A naïve one? What are you _waiting_ for? How many times now have I confessed to, literally, everything?"

It's been four times so far, but Jongdae doesn't answer.

His face must betray him, because Yixing's smile is rueful and tired. He stands up, hands in his jeans' pockets, paces the length of Jongdae's living room, taking his time to look at the bookcase and Jongdae's collection of romance and mystery novels and his old comic books.

Jongdae watches him from his spot by the breakfast bar separating the living room from the kitchen, his pulse quickening the closer Yixing gets, which isn't much, really, but still.

Yixing stops by the coffee table, turns to look at him. There are four steps separating them. Jongdae feels the space between them tense and release, tense and release, ready to snap.

"You know, Yifan's going bald because he thinks you're just gathering enough intel to expose me—us. He thinks you're playing with me," Yixing's disbelieving tone betrays the apprehension in his eyes. After a quiet moment of just looking at each other, he asks, "Are you?"

He looks so fragile, so young, so fucking _human_. It makes Jongdae's carefully constructed resolve tremble.

He shakes his head firmly. "No. I'm not, Yixing."

"Then, what—"

He says, slowly, "I got tired of trying to figure out who you are."

Yixing visibly flinches, "Oh—"

"I mean," Jongdae adds, looking away and scratching at the side of his neck. He shrugs and flushes a little under Yixing's expectant gaze. He doesn't know how to explain it, is the thing. Words just fail Jongdae; how can he explain this to Yixing if he can't even explain it to himself. "I just don't care anymore. It doesn't matter as much as it used to. I know who you are, I do. And I just—I don't care."

"I hope that's a good thing," Yixing says softly.

Jongdae nods. "It is." It feels like the biggest admission Jongdae has ever made.

The following silence is rather awkward. Things have never been awkward between them—they're mostly tense with anticipation but never like this, like neither of them know exactly where to step. Jongdae bites at the inside of his cheek and watches as Yixing goes back to his quiet assessment of Jongdae's living room, the pictures on the counter under the TV, of him and his family, his friends, the guys at the station from that one barbeque a couple years ago, Baekhyun and him on their first day of elementary school.

It's extremely disconcerting and Jongdae merely keeps to himself, observes Yixing and the way he traces nimble fingers over the edges of frames, the spines of books, like he's learning—learning _Jongdae_ —by touch and the traces of everyday-life scattered all over the place.

He looks right at home in the middle of Jongdae's living room and Jongdae doesn't know what to make of it.

"You know," Yixing says amiably once he's done inspecting Jongdae's old DVD collection, "you're a terrible host."

"Want me to start shooting at you, make you feel right at home?" Jongdae throws back, and whether it's half an admission or not, he can't tell.

Yixing feigns horror, hand to his chest and all. "Too soon, Jongdae, too soon."

"Tea's the best I've got right now," Jongdae says. He nods back to the kitchen. "Haven't really had time to do the groceries."

"Job keeping you busy, huh." Yixing's lips twitch; he's taking small, uncertain steps towards Jongdae and only a couple separate them now. This time the tension between them is one Jongdae's grown used to, almost fond.

His lips flatten. "Yeah, well, some punk has gotten under other very powerful punk's skin and somehow we're all caught in the middle."

"Why yes, I'm very powerful, thank you." Yixing's smile is _cute_ , there's no other way to describe it. Jongdae finds himself smiling back, though he rolls his eyes for good measure because Yixing can't find out Jongdae actually _enjoys_ this back and forth.

"Let me get you your tea so you can finally shut up." Jongdae pushes himself off the counter to round it and start looking around for tea when Yixing's hand catches him, curling around Jongdae's elbow gently, stopping him in his tracks, halfway into the kitchen.

Jongdae turns to find them standing very close. His heart stutters a little and Yixing looks _way_ too soft under the yellow kitchen lights, it's almost impossible he's real right now. Jongdae swallows, feels his stomach grow hot when he finds Yixing's eyes following the movement, and this is it, isn't it, this is—

"What," he starts, barely above a murmur, and he intends to follow with _what is it_ , or maybe with _what are you doing_ , but Yixing's eyes are on his lips and Jongdae feels like returning the favor—Yixing's lips look soft, pink, there's a tiny mole right under the line of his lower lip and Jongdae can't look away.

"I'm not here for tea," Yixing says at last.

"Oh," Jongdae says, very intelligently. Yixing's palm is still on his arm, fingers warm and strong over the fabric of Jongdae's shirt. "Right."

Yixing's eyes narrow a little. "You know, for a detective, you're not very sharp."

Jongdae narrows his eyes back. "You know, for someone trying to make a move, you're very slow."

Apparently, that's all it takes. Yixing slides his hand up, cups the ball of Jongdae's shoulder to gently push him up against the fridge, kisses him with a hand on his hair and the other one moving to his waist, and it's, by far, better than it has any right to be. Jongdae pulls him closer by the front of his sweater, the back of his neck, licks into his mouth like he's been thinking about for _months_ and the noise Yixing makes is the sweetest Jongdae's ever heard. He tastes sweet and perfect; smells so good from up-close, lavender and musk, slightly spicy—it drives Jongdae _mad_.

Yixing pulls away first, not too far but far enough to exhale loudly against Jongdae's lips. "I've been thinking about kissing you since you arrested me," he says, giggling a little. "I would really like to keep kissing you but I have to go."

One of Jongdae's thumb fits behind Yixing's ear perfectly. He nods, in a trace, licks his lips, stretched in a smile. "Okay," he says. His thumb touches the mole at the edge of Yixing's lip and Yixing's shoulders shiver under his sweater. "I've thought about kissing you, too," Jongdae admits. "It's been a problem."

They kiss again, kiss until Yixing mumbles, "I _really_ have to go," and then, "I wanna stay but—" another soft kiss, Yixing's lower lip catching under Jongdae's, "I'm still technically on house arrest."

Jongdae's breathing hard. He's got both hands buried in Yixing's soft, dark hair, and Yixing's hands are stuffed down the back pockets of Jongdae's pants. Jongdae can't remember when that happened, but he can't really complain. He lets his head fall back against the fridge and Yixing dips his head and drops a single, chaste kiss on the side of Jongdae's neck and it's like fire sizzles under his skin, he wants to pull Yixing closer and closer and closer still, wants to kiss him senseless and breathless until—

Yixing slides his hands off Jongdae and takes a tiny step back. "I have to go," he says again, "before someone realizes I sneaked out. I really don't want you on the receiving end of that mayhem." His lips are bitten red and Jongdae can't help it when he leans forward and kisses him again, chastely this time, barely a peck.

He groans. "Jongin doesn't know you're here, does he?"

"Nope, and when he finds out I'm gone, he'll kill someone," a tiny, mischievous smile, "but I promise this time my lawyers won't be dicks about the paperwork."

"Very considerate," Jongdae nods.

Yixing grins, rearranging the collar of Jongdae's shirt. "Civic duty and all that."

 

 

 

Junmyeon asks Jongdae to lead another interrogation on Thanksgiving morning. Jongdae hasn't showered in two days, the last time he ate was probably ten hours ago, and his last cup of coffee only lasted about two and half hours before caffeine evaporated off his body. He'd dead on his feet.

The past week has been _hell_. The system drags everything out and everything is so fucked up Jongdae's seriously considering quitting his job and never leave his bed again. He's got vacation days saved up, maybe he should use them.

Yixing is a sight for sore eyes. He's dressed in a grey hoodie and track pants—looks right out of his morning jog. Which Jongdae knows of because of the tailing all those months ago, but that's beside the point.

They haven't talked much since that night at Jongdae's, but it's more due a lack of time than lack of interest—Yixing texts him from unknown numbers sometimes, texts Jongdae leads from his side and every day the case seems to get closer and closer to being closed, and then evidence goes missing and it's like Jongdae's at the end of his proverbial rope here. One time, he calls Baekhyun so he can pass the call along; Baekhyun barely blinked at the screen of his phone and then tossed it in Jongdae's direction, unperturbed.

Jongdae hasn't told Baekhyun about it—them, if there's a _them_ —and Baekhyun is as busy as Jongdae is so it's not like he has the time to.

"Sorry for the wait," Jongdae says, taking a seat in front of Yixing.

"It's alright," Yixing answers, a soft smile on his face. Jongdae wants nothing better than to pull the chair round the table so he can rest his head on Yixing's shoulder, but Junmyeon's watching through the glass.

The line of questioning goes the same as ever. Yixing tells them what he knows, what he's seen, and Jongdae conducts the same questions over and over on auto-pilot.

Except this time Yixing says, near the end, "I hope you can find some time to relax in the next few days," and his fingers, steepled together on the table between them, twitch lightly. He's looking at Jongdae with concern in his eyes, his mouth set in a line.

He's worried, Jongdae realizes.

He smiles back with little energy, voice gone soft. "I hope so, too," he says, and can't find it in himself to care whether Junmyeon and the whole precinct are looking.

(Yixing texts him from an unknown number later that afternoon, sends, _My guys are taking care of the missing evidence. Everything should be done and over with by the weekend._

And then, _As much as I appreciate your shoulders, they were looking way too tense today. Go out, get a drink, relax. I'm still on house arrest so first round's on me, wherever you choose to go. Happy thanksgiving._

Jongdae stares at the screen of his phone for so long the letters blur together. He goes home for a couple of hours per request of the Captain, eats dinner and showers and sits on the couch to watch some late-night TV, and tries not to think of Yixing in his own living room possibly doing the same.)

 

 

  
The last bit of evidence comes literally tumbling into Jongdae's doorstep on a Friday night, a little past eleven. He's trying to dry his hair with a towel when there's a sharp knock on his front door and Jongdae's got his gun in hand, trained at the door, faster than ever before. His instructors back at the Academy would be so proud if they could see him.

"What if he's not home, he could have a _life_ , you know," a suspiciously familiar voice says, and another one, less familiar, hisses a, " _please_ be quiet, Yixing, don't make me knock you the fuck out."

Jongdae pulls his door open so fast his elbow hurts a little. Jongin's got an arm under Yixing's shoulders, holding him up against his body. Yixing's grey shirt is stained dark-red on his side, and his smile, when Jongdae looks at him, is far-off, almost too weak.

"Jongdae, you're home," he says, grinning sleepily.

Jongin pushes the way inside—Yixing groans through the whole process—and all Jongdae can do is close the door quickly behind them, following them into the living room to watch Jongin drop Yixing gingerly onto the couch.

"What the fuck," Jongdae asks, wide-eyed.

Jongin ignores him, crossing the room to look out the windows and then draw the curtains part-way closed, until it's Yixing who says, tugging on the hem of Jongdae's t-shirt, "Park sent out yet another hit, it proved to be more effective than the last eighty-five. I'm so sorry, Jongdae, I'm bleeding all over your couch, that's not very nice of me. I'll buy you a new set in the morning—Jongin, Jongin? Remind me to get Jongdae new furniture—"

Jongdae forgets all about Jongin and sits by Yixing's side, lifting the stained flap of his shirt to take a look. There's a half-assed dressing on Yixing's left flank, slowly pinking from blood. "What the fuck happened? Were you shot? Stabbed? What the hell am I looking at here, Yixing?"

"He was _almost_ stabbed," Jongin says tartly. "It's barely a deep graze. I stitched him up, he'll be fine in the morning."

"I gotta call this in," Jongdae says, standing up. Yixing's fingers close around his wrist and Jongin says,

"No, you don't." His tone is hard and he looks _pissed_ , like he's about to pull his gun out and empty it in Jongdae's face if he so much as opens his mouth again, which is not a comfortable thought to have. "You're gonna keep an eye on him while I _question_ the little fucker in the trunk of my car. I'll take him to the station and I'll handle it from there."

"Excuse me? Who the fuck—"

"Jongin—"

"No, listen," Jongin continues, slightly gentler, "You're the only one I trust to keep an eye on him right now. It's the third time this week, okay? Tao is shit with guns, Kris is out of the country—don't look so surprised, he has ways to get out under the radar—and Sehun has fucking _finals_ this week, I swear to fucking god—"

"The _third time_?" Jongdae doesn't mean to, but his voice picks up a little. "Why didn't you report it?"

"I asked him not to," Yixing interjects. At Jongdae's disbelieving face, he adds, "It was the best way to make Park slip up. Jongin's managed to catch a live one, he'll get him to confess one way or the other and things will get back to normal and I'll finally be able to take you out on a date. It's win-win."

"Oh god," Jongin groans. "Of all the people to fall for, boss."

"Sshh, be quiet, Jonginnie, grown-ups are talking," Yixing admonishes. He's pale and his words are slurring a little and Jongdae's _worried_.

"You can't take me out on a date if you bleed to death all over my couch, you know," Jongdae points out. In the back, Jongin makes gagging sounds.

Yixing grins up at him, sloppy, but before Jongdae can say anything else, Jongin says, "Look, I gotta go now. Keep him awake, his stitches will hold as long as he doesn't move around too much. That means no sex on the couch, got me?"

Jongdae makes an offended sound and Yixing laughs so hard he ends up coughing, pained.

Jongin leaves shortly after, tells Jongdae not to go into the station until his shift starts, which lucky for all of them, is still around twelve hours away. Jongdae sits on the coffee table, looking at Yixing, who's slumped on his good side, staring at the ceiling.

"How're you feeling?" he asks.

Yixing shrugs a shoulder. "Like every other Friday, really." He drops his gaze towards Jongdae and smiles sideways. "Hey, don't worry, you heard Jongin. It was only a couple stitches, I'll live."

"I should call Baekhyun so he keeps an eye out for Jongin," Jongdae starts, and Yixing shakes his head. "Why not?"

"You'll only make him anxious about this whole thing. The guy Jongin got, he's Park's second; he must've been desperate to get at me if he sent him. He's slipping up. It'll all work itself out, you'll see."

"What if he doesn't confess?"

Yixing snorts. "You don't know Jongin like I do. I trust his abilities to break people's wills. You should, too."

"That is really not as reassuring as you think it is," Jongdae points out.

"Potato, potahto," Yixing retorts. "Stop worrying, Jongdae, please."

It's not like it's a switch he can flip, is what Jongdae wants to say. Instead, he goes with, "I'll get you some clothes, okay?"

"Trying to get me naked, babe?" Yixing smirks, cheeky. "I'm willing to face Jongin's wrath if you are."

"Shut up," Jongdae sighs, smiling, though, and goes to fetch some spare clothes for Yixing from his room. Yixing's laugh carries through the apartment, and it makes Jongdae's fingers warmer than they need to be right now.  

When he walks back into the living room, Yixing's dozing off a little. "Hey," he nudges Yixing's knee gently, "hey, you can't go to sleep."

Yixing blinks an eye open, "That's right, you haven't kissed me goodnight yet."

Jongdae considers him, trying not to laugh. "Blood loss makes you chirpy, doesn't it? Come on, give me a hand with this." He reaches for the front of Yixing's shirt and Yixing helps him peel it off, slowly and gentle so his stitches hold. Yixing makes sleepy, grumpy noises whenever he's jostled and Jongdae shouldn't find it adorable, especially since Yixing is half-conscious and bloody, but he can't really help it at this point.

"Are you shitting me," Yixing deadpans when he takes a look at the shirt, _Seoul PD_ in white font over dark green fabric.

Jongdae grins at him. "Looks good on you."

Yixing grumbles a reply in Chinese and then says, "Are you gonna take my pants off, too?" and Jongdae's mouth runs a little dry, so he just nods and gestures to the sweats he brought along with the t-shirt.

They make quick, efficient work of Yixing's pants. Jongdae keeps it professional, barely glances at the expanse of Yixing's bare thighs, or the stretch of his black briefs, or anything of the sort, really. Yixing watches him, though, keeps his gaze on Jongdae like a dare, almost, and Jongdae stands up from his position once Yixing's dressed, taking a step back, mumbling about water and "gotta keep you hydrated."

It's around two am when Jongin texts, _things are being handled will keep you posted_ , and Yixing sighs a weary sigh, burrowing under the blanket Jongdae got for him. "Wake me up when it's all over."

Jongdae, at the other end of the couch, snorts and pats Yixing's knee. "Take a nap, I'll wake you in a few hours to check back on you, okay?"

It surprises Jongdae, then, when Yixing asks, quiet, "Why did you become a cop, Jongdae?"

He sounds surprisingly awake, even if he barely lifts his voice enough to be heard across the couch. Jongdae watches him for a second, holds his gaze and feels at a loss of words, which is something that happens regularly around him, apparently.

He shrugs, considers the question while running fingers through his hair. "My grandpa was one. Then my dad, too. It just felt like the right thing to do, you know?"

"Mhm," Yixing hums, still looking at him. "Whose memory were you trying to honor?"

Jongdae smiles a little. "My dad wanted me to be a doctor. Made it all the way through pre-med and then I realized it just wasn't my thing. He was furious. Got over it, though."

"You graduated top of your class, I'm sure he was proud," Yixing says.

Jongdae purses his lips. "Did you hack into my file?"

"I've told you, I pay people to do things for me," Yixing says, smiling. He reaches out under the blanket and finds Jongdae's hand. He doesn't take it, though, just traces Jongdae's knuckles with the pads of his fingers. "I had Tao check you out. I needed to know who the little shit trying to bust me was, you know. I had to find out if you were a threat."

"Was I?" Jongdae asks, his pulse racing. "Am I?"

"Jury's still out," Yixing says. His touch doesn't falter.

"How did you…" Jongdae looks at him, bites the inside of his cheek. "How did you end up where you are?"

Yixing sighs, laughing a little. "Same as you, really. Family business and all that." For a moment, he looks sad—almost desperately so. "I wanted to make music, back in college. Didn't really pan out, as you can see."

Jongdae turns his hand over, intertwines their fingers. "Whose memory were you honoring?"

Yixing huffs, fingers tightening briefly. "Let you know when I find out, babe."

(Jongin picks Yixing up around seven in the morning, says, "They'll probably call you in so you can give a hand out, there's a lot of paperwork, you know," with a mean smirk on his face, and Yixing apologizes all the way down the hall towards the elevator.

"Thanks for keeping him safe," Jongin says finally, a lot more serious, and Jongdae nods. Behind Jongin, Yixing smiles sweetly at him, and then the doors close and Jongdae's phone rings.)

 

 

 

By the end of the month, Park is finally found guilty on several charges. There's enough of them to last him two lifetimes, and Jongdae's truly worked to the bone by the time the case leaves the station and heads into the system. The press has a feast with it all, there are reporters stationed at every exit, and the parking-lot is a fucking mess every single morning.

Yixing barely shows his face to them, though, and whenever he does, his statements can be summed up in, "I'm just glad it's all over now and I can get back to work." Jongdae can relate; his shifts are back to normal and he can sleep his eight mandatory hours and catch late dinner with Yixing a few times a week, whenever he doesn't eat with Baekhyun or by himself.

"So," Baekhyun says on a Wednesday, "you and Yixing, huh?"

Jongdae's in the middle of shutting his side drawer closed and Baekhyun's voice startles him, the tip of his finger zinging in pain when it's caught in between the edges of his desk. "Ow, damn it."

Baekhyun cackles. "Look at you getting all nervous. It's cute."

"Shut up," Jongdae groans, going back to the report he's been writing.

"Be honest with me, though," Baekhyun rolls his chair close to Jongdae, and his voice dips. "Are you guys dating? Do I gotta give him the 'if you break his heart, I have a gun' talk?"

Jongdae struggles with the answer because he doesn't know it himself. He and Yixing get dinner and text and call and kiss and get handsy (Jongdae's never felt this sexually frustrated, _never_ , not even when he was back in the Academy) and all that but that's it—Yixing never stays the night, says, "Imagine if this gets out, me sleeping with one of the officers in the case, it's way too much trouble," and Jongdae believes him, not because he says it sweetly in between small kisses, but because he's not dumb and it's the hard, cold reality they live in and he really doesn't want to lose his job.

 _We're not sneaking around_ , Yixing said once over the phone, exhaustion and sadness creeping into his voice, and it'd made Jongdae wonder how he got so good at reading Yixing like this, _we're just being really careful._

"I don't know what we are," he says, fingers still clicking on his keyboard. "We're just being careful till the investigation ends. I like him, he seems to like me back; we're just taking it slow." It's the most honest he's ever been about his love-life—or lack thereof—especially to Baekhyun.

"Okay," Baekhyun nods, nudging him with his elbow. He inspects Jongdae's face and then says, "It's good to see you this happy, you know. You look better. Besides the eyebags, I mean."

Jongdae rolls his eyes. "Thanks, Baekhyun."

Baekhyun flicks his elbow. "I'm serious. He makes you smile a lot. I like that about him."

"I like that about him, too," he says, and Baekhyun nudges him again, giggling like a maniac as he rolls his way back to his own desk.

 

 

 

The case wraps up on a Friday, around three in the morning, and Jongdae's ninety percent caffeine by the time Junmyeon dismisses everyone and sends them home. He turns his computer off, gathers his stuff, and is out of the precinct before Junmyeon's back behind his desk, sits in the inside of his car with the heat on as he pulls out his phone.

Yixing picks up on the third ring, says, "Jongdae, what—it's three in the morning, this better be good—"

"We closed the case, just now," Jongdae says, head dropping back into the rest. He sighs. "It's finally over, I can't fucking believe it."

"That's excellent news," Yixing yawns into the phone. "Are you going home now? Is it snowing?"

"Uh, yeah, it's not that bad—I'll be careful on the free-way—"

"Or you could come over," Yixing says slowly, quiet, and Jongdae's mouth clicks closed. "I mean, technically speaking, my place is closer than yours."

"You," Jongdae breathes, "are very right, yes."

There's charged silence from the other end of the line, and Jongdae's knee jumps up and down anxiously as he lets it unfold; his mouth runs dry, his fingers shake a little, and all he can hear is the way Yixing's breathing through the line, quiet and calm and too far away for his liking.

"Hurry up, then, can't wait to finally give you the grand tour," Yixing says, voice thick like syrup, and hangs up.

Jongdae takes his time to get to Yixing's place. He's a good fifteen minutes out in the residential area, and where it'd normally take around twenty to get there from the station, Jongdae manages to make it in thirty-five and feeling more like himself and less like a walking pot of coffee. There's a man standing guard outside Yixing's gate and he lets Jongdae right in, points to the side of the house to let Jongdae know he can park there and it takes an extra five minutes for Jongdae to finally get his shit together and walk out of his car and into the cold mid-December weather. 

Yixing looks _good_ as he opens the door to let Jongdae in, hair a mess, white t-shirt sleep-rumpled. He's wearing the sweat pants Jongdae let him borrow so long ago and it tugs at the core in Jongdae's stomach like a burning hook.

"Hey, come in, it's freezing."

"It's not that bad," Jongdae lies, or at least half-lies since the reason his fingers are shaking has nothing to do with the cold, and walks into the warmth of Yixing's house.

It's _huge_. The foyer alone is twice the size of Jongdae's living room. There's a whole open-space concept in the first story and it kind of gives Jongdae the hives—he could fit his whole apartment just in the living room. There are windows everywhere and Jongdae can make out the shadows of trees beyond the back garden.

It looks strangely lived in as well, though. There's a wall lined with photos Jongdae can't quite see from where he's standing, and a bunch of blankets thrown over the couches in the living room. There's a fireplace and actual real wood is burning there, the crackling alone making Jongdae's skin feel warmer.

"This is very nice," Jongdae says.

"Thank you," Yixing says, throwing a look around. "It's way too big for myself sometimes, really." He leads Jongdae to the island in the middle of the kitchen, where a lot of food containers are spread over the table. "Guessed you haven't had dinner yet—uh, there's chicken and some stir-fry thingy, if you want some?" Yixing asks.

Jongdae shakes his head, "No, I'm good. I hope you didn't order in at three am, though."

"Are you kidding me, nothing's open at this hour," Yixing says, laughing a little. He looks at the food, "Jongin's mom sends in all this food sometimes, says it's for Jongin but he rarely eats here."

"She's nice," Jongdae says.

"She is," Yixing nods, smiling at Jongdae with wonder in his eyes. "She taught me how to gut a pig once, you know. It comes in very handy in this job." It makes Jongdae laugh and that's when Yixing closes the distance between them in two swift steps to press his mouth to Jongdae's still laughing one, pulling on the front of Jongdae's jacket.

It's very hard to focus on—on anything, really, when Yixing kisses him like that. It's a mix of casualness and intent, sears Jongdae through the chest with how much he _likes_ it and how much he's been _waiting_ for it, the feeling of Yixing's slick mouth on his, for the past week, the past thirty minutes.

He grabs the back of Yixing's t-shirt, fingers tight, and lets himself be pressed to the counter.

"I'm sorry," Yixing says between kisses, sweet and slow, holding the sides of Jongdae's face, "but the tour's gonna have to wait."

"S'okay," Jongdae bites into the flesh of Yixing's lower lip, "some other time, maybe."

"You _are_ smart after all," Yixing sighs, his hands sliding under the hem of Jongdae's shirt to get at skin, and Jongdae leans into the touch. "Thank God."

"Shut up," he groans, weaving fingers into Yixing's hair, "just shut up."

"Make me," Yixing says, low, like a dare, and Jongdae's stomach turns into liquid heat, months and months of _want_ flooding through his veins.

He leans in again to kiss Yixing into silence with teeth, almost pent-up aggression. Yixing takes it in stride, fingers digging into Jongdae's lower back, pulling him from his slouched position against the counter so he can tug his way into what Jongdae very much hopes is Yixing's bedroom.

"Fuck," Yixing hisses when Jongdae lets go of his lips to suck kisses down the line of his jaw instead. "Fuck, I've been thinking about this for _months_ , Jongdae, you've no fucking idea."

Except Jongdae _knows_ , can feel it building right under his skin, the back of his tongue, the tips of his fingers. He lets Yixing push him up against a wall and takes a hold of his hand so he can direct it between his legs. Yixing makes a sound and cups Jongdae through his pants, his fingers spreading over Jongdae's half-hard cock.

"Think I do," Jongdae breathes, pulling Yixing close enough to kiss by the neck of his t-shirt again, licks into his mouth slow and with purpose, and Yixing's fingers flex a little, making Jongdae moan at the back of his throat.

"Bed," Yixing pants when he pulls away, tugging Jongdae with him by the beltloops in his jeans, "room, upstairs, come on, let's go."

Jongdae can't really appreciate the way to Yixing's room because he's too busy sucking on his tongue. The climb up the stairs is spent mostly with their mouths still somewhat attached and Yixing's hands in his hair, his fingertips pressing burning trails to Jongdae's scalp. Yixing presses him up against the open door of his room when they're finally upstairs and pins Jongdae's hands to it, their hips aligned and rolling in sync as he sucks on the skin of Jongdae's neck.

"God," Jongdae breathes, eyes clenched shut under the delicious friction and the feeling of Yixing's tongue on his skin, warm and slick, the press of his teeth and the soothing sensation of his lips. He's breathing hard by the time Yixing's happy with the bruise he's sucked on Jongdae's throat, and when he pulls away his mouth's the reddest it's ever been, shiny with his own spit, his eyes hazy and electric.

"Come on," he says, lips pulling into a smirk, taking a step back towards his bed. He takes the hem of his t-shirt and starts to pull it up, slowly revealing the expanse of his stomach, his chest, his pink nipples, until he pulls it off over his head and throws it towards a low-sitting sofa, because of course he has one of those in his room.

Jongdae peels himself off the door and takes his jacket off, drops it on top of Yixing's discarded t-shirt. Yixing stands at the end of his king-sized bed; the sheets are rumpled behind him, pale and inviting like the rest of him. The curve of his cock under ( _Jongdae's_ ) his sweatpants a tantalizing one. It makes Jongdae's mouth water, and his fingers shake as he unbuttons his shirt and then carelessly flings it towards the couch.

"Come here," Yixing says in a strained voice, licking his lips. "Fuck, Jongdae—"

It takes about five steps to close the distance between them. Yixing moves up the bed as Jongdae follows a heartbeat behind him, pins him to the messy sheets and licks his mouth open until Yixing's pushing up against Jongdae's, his thighs around Jongdae's hips.

Jongdae's too busy sucking on Yixing's tongue to realize he's being rolled onto his back. He blinks up at Yixing once his head hits a pillow to find him smugly smirking down at him.

"Shocked?" he purrs. He's sitting on top of Jongdae's cock, two layers of fabric too many between them.

Jongdae runs a thumb across a hard nipple, palms Yixing's side and traces the scar he's got there with gentle fingers. Yixing shudders under his touch and his hips circle on top of Jongdae's, making them both groan. He bites his lip and leans down to kiss at Jongdae's collarbones, mouth travelling south hot and wet. His nose slides soft and feather-like along the side of Jongdae's navel, and it takes a whole fucking lot of willpower not to direct Yixing's mouth to where he needs it most. Yixing presses swift, tiny kisses down the line of hair disappearing past the waist-line of his jeans, his fingers reaching for the front to undo the button and zipper, the sound of the teeth clicking open mixing with Jongdae's labored breathing.

"I've been thinking about sucking your cock for months," Yixing says, rather calmly, like he's talking about the weather outside, his lips dragging down Jongdae's belly. It makes him shiver and his dick twitches in his pants, right under Yixing's chin.

Jongdae says nothing, just bites his lips and bunches his fingers in the fabric under him as Yixing kisses the skin revealed, pushing Jongdae's jeans and underwear down past his ass. When his cock finally springs free, Jongdae feels like he could burst out of his skin, his fingers clench on empty air and Yixing's mouth is painfully slow as he takes the tip into his mouth. He looks up at Jongdae through his lashes and Jongdae swallows thickly, his tongue too big for his mouth, and lets out a tiny sound as Yixing takes more of him in, his mouth slacking open, his eyes rolling back a little.

His eyes are fixed on Yixing's mouth—he's seen that mouth get Yixing out of trouble more than once, and apparently it's not only good at that: he sucks dick like he's got something to prove here, like he's trying to break Jongdae apart from this very spot, the hands on his hips the only anchor Jongdae has as to not melt into the bed, nothing but sweat and come. He hums around the tip and Jongdae's hands need to be _on him_ ; he touches the top of Yixing's head, his hair, the side of his jaw, the top of his shoulders and the top of his cheek, the corner of his mouth, stretched around his dick.

Yixing looks up at him as he pulls off and his eyes are glassy, his lips red and swollen. Jongdae runs the pad of his thumb along the bottom one and Yixing makes a choked-off sound, parting his lips to suck at it loosely.

"Fuck," Jongdae breathes, awed. His cock twitches at the sight Yixing makes like this: hair a mess, mouth used, needy.

"Yes, please," he grins up at Jongdae, letting his thumb pop free from between his lips. His fingers are curled in a tight fist around Jongdae's cock, pulling slow and steady. "I want you to fuck me. I _need_ you to fuck me, Jongdae."

It takes a few seconds for Jongdae to get his mouth back to working. "If you ask so nicely," Jongdae purses his lips, fighting a smile, and feels the loss _in his soul_ when Yixing takes his hand off him in order to push himself up so he can pull Jongdae's pants and socks off.

He lets the clothes drop off the side of the bed. "Wanna know a secret?" he asks as he sits back, eyes on Jongdae, starting to shove off his pants. He's not wearing anything underneath and Jongdae _aches_ for him, wants to reach over and put his mouth _every-fucking-where_.

He props himself up on his elbows to have a better view of Yixing trying to get out of his pants. It's strangely cute, watching him struggle. "You're secretly a klutz?"

"Hah," Yixing rolls his eyes, finally getting out of his pants, "very funny. But no, that's not the secret." His eyes flick dangerously then and Jongdae's mouth goes dry at the sight of him crawling up the expanse of his body, ducking to lap at the head of Jongdae's cock while holding his gaze. He smirks, the jackass, until he's holding himself on top of Jongdae and he can press their mouths together. The heat of his mouth is addicting, Jongdae's been ruined forever. "The secret is," Yixing murmurs hoarsely against Jongdae's mouth, straddling him but not quite sitting on him yet—which rightfully drives Jongdae up a fucking wall because Yixing's cock is _right there_ and it's perfect, in girth and length, perfect like the rest of him, "it was taking you too long to get here so I started without you."

Jongdae groans, a hundred percent sure he could come right now and right like this. He leans in to bite at Yixing's lower lip, grip on his hips tightening, "Yixing—"

"Thought about you the whole time, babe, I promise," Yixing says, breathing hard. His hand comes from under one of the pillows with a condom and a half-used tube of lube. He grins down at Yixing, feral and utterly dangerous as he rips the foil with his teeth. "Maybe later I'll show you exactly how I fingered myself open. After the tour, perhaps?"

"I hate you," Jongdae sighs, watching Yixing roll the condom down his cock. He bites his lip, running both hands through his hair in _despair_ because Yixing's stroking him _beautifully_ , he knows exactly how Jongdae likes it and the bastard's doing it on purpose, he has to be, getting Jongdae on edge like this.

"Liar." His thumb runs in circles over the covered tip of Jongdae's dick and it's too much, his hips rock off the bed and into Yixing's fist until Yixing's murmuring _fucking hell_ under his breath, his tone strained. It seems to make him pick the pace of things up; he gets the lube and Jongdae takes pride in the way Yixing's fingers shake as he nearly upends the whole tube onto his cock.

"Come on," Jongdae urges, his hand on Yixing's elbow, and then Yixing's mouth is on him, messy and uncoordinated as he straddles Jongdae again and holds his dick steady so he can sit on him. 

Yixing's mouth hovers above his as he slowly takes Jongdae inside him. "Holy fucking shit, Jongdae—" He's tight, _so damn tight_ , and the flutter of his hole around the tip is _excruciating_. Jongdae holds himself very still—isn’t sure if he's still breathing—as Yixing sinks his hips down, clutching at the juts of his hip for dear life. Yixing's making tiny hiccupy noises as he goes, and he looks so fucking beautiful, hair a mess and sticking to his temples a little with sweat.

Yixing blushes everywhere. The top of his cheeks, the tip of his ears, his shoulders, his chest, almost to his navel, even his cock. Jongdae wraps fingers around it after squirting some lube on his hand and strokes slowly, grip tight, and Yixing's moans get louder, hips falling flush on Jongdae's.

"Fuck," he whispers up at the ceiling, head thrown back. He's bracing his weight on Jongdae's chest, and when he looks down at him, his eyes are glassy and his lip is bitten red. "Fuck, you feel so good. It feels so good." His hips rock a little into Jongdae's fist and he clenches his eyes shut.

"Okay?" Jongdae asks, free hand on Yixing's hip.

"Perfect," Yixing says, half a chuckle at the back of his throat. "You?"

Jongdae licks his lips, breathing through his nose. He gives Yixing's cock a good tug only to watch him squirm and feel him clench around the cock in his ass. "Could come like this," he admits through gritted teeth, "you don't even gotta move."

"Aw," Yixing grins down at him, hips shakily rocking back and forth, barely an inch but enough to make Jongdae moan, "where's the fun in that, though?"

Jongdae gives Yixing's dick one last tug before curling both hands on his hips. "Thought we had all night," he says, and Yixing smirks like he agrees as he locks his knees and hoists himself up.

It's tortuous. He's tight and Jongdae's been hard for—a year, maybe—way too long and all his brain wants is to _fuck_.

It's Yixing who sets the pace, though. He holds Jongdae's gaze as he rides him, flutters his eyelashes, murmurs praise and encouragement, fingers his nipples, licks at his neck. He says, "God, you're so good, Jongdae, so fucking good," and Jongdae's whole body pulls tight, his fingers leaving print-like bruises on Yixing's hips. Yixing kisses him deep, licks into his mouth and fucks his tongue in time with the rolls of his hips and it's _maddening_ , Jongdae feels so on edge his teeth itch.

He wraps arms around Yixing's shoulders, pulls him close, closer, Yixing's hands braced at either side of his head for balance. Jongdae thrusts up as much as he can under Yixing's weight, tries to do something, _anything_ and Yixing won't let him, pins him to the bed with mouth and hips until Jongdae's trembling and begging to come, begging Yixing to let him fuck him like he _needs_ to.

Yixing's cock leaves a messy trail of pre-come on Jongdae's stomach. Jongdae feels pool there, feels it mix with the sweat on his skin, burn a whole through his gut. 

"Please," he pants when Yixing pulls his mouth off his. He clutches at the back of Yixing's head, his hair, his neck, his shoulders. He's strung so tight it hurts in every joint of his body, every muscle locked and waiting for sweet release. "Fuck, baby, please—"

Yixing plants a hand on his chest, props himself halfway up, kissing the corner of Jongdae's mouth. "Do it," he breathes, eyes lidded when Jongdae finds them, "fuck me, come on, Jongdae, just—"

It takes far more energy than Jongdae's got to spare. He just nods, though, nods so hard his neck will get a crick tomorrow—in fact, his whole body will be sore tomorrow, but he doesn't _care_ —and lets Yixing brace himself with one hand on his chest, the other one stroking his own cock. He holds Yixing's hips up to make it easier on the both of them, and Yixing holds his own weight pretty well.

"Ready when you are," he smirks, lazily stroking himself.

Jongdae returns the smirk before thrusting up with all he's got. It's pretty effective to wipe the smug grin off Yixing's face; the expression that overtakes him instead is fantastic, his mouth opens in an 'o' and his eyes roll back, cheeks getting darker. He's absolutely stunning like this, holding himself up to let Jongdae, for the first time tonight, take matters into his own hands. He curses when Jongdae fucks him again, deeper, harder, and blunt nails dig into Jongdae's chest.

"Holy shit," Yixing breathes. "That was good." His eyes are wild when he looks down at Jongdae. "Now fuck me like you mean it."

It's perfect. Jongdae fucks him exactly like he's been meaning to and Yixing's whimpering moans grow louder, breathier, messier. Jongdae pulls out, almost to the tip, and then fucks right in and Yixing clenches so good around him it makes Jongdae's head thrash against the pillow, makes his teeth grind with the energy it takes not to come even though all he wants is to let go. The noise—fuck, the noise his cock makes every time it slides right inside—the squelching of lube and latex and skin and sweat is as fucking intoxicating as it is obscene.  

It could be hours or days or even fucking years—or seconds, Jongdae's betting on seconds here—of Yixing moaning praise and curses and, "fuck, I'm so close, Jongdae, darling, please," as he tightens impossibly so around Jongdae.

Yixing's doubled over now, his fist moving quick over his dick and his mouth close enough to Jongdae's to breathe hotly against it. It's a strain but Jongdae's willing to face the pain tomorrow morning and the whole week too if it means getting to kiss Yixing's lax mouth as he nearly screams himself raw and comes all over Jongdae's stomach, hot stripe after hot stripe. He clenches tight, sits on Jongdae's dick until Jongdae bottoms out and then lifts his hips off, again, _again_ , panting and groaning in broken Chinese, fingers still milking his release.

He's beautiful, pink all over, hot to the touch. Sweat glistens in his skin, and the longer he keeps working his cock, the harder he shudders. Jongdae can feel it around his cock and it's too much, it's—

"Yixing," he grits, hoarse, touching the small of Yixing's back and aching to thrust up into the heat of Yixing's ass, "please—"

"Keep going," Yixing begs, eyes hazy, not once faltering the rocking of his hips—in fact, he picks up the pace, rides Jongdae so hard Jongdae's eyes tear up a little, his chest tight, too much and not enough. "Keep fucking me, Jongdae, please, please—"

Jongdae's nerves are on fire. He tries, _god_ , does he try, but Yixing's mouth is running with pleas and Jongdae _can't_ anymore. Yixing makes a strangled sound that Jongdae echoes deep in his belly as he feels himself tip over the edge, but his hands clench on empty air and Yixing's off him in a second—Jongdae feels the loss like a punch in the teeth, can barely keep an eye open to watch Yixing get off his lap in one lithe motion and crawl in between Jongdae's spread knees.

It happens so fast, too fast. Yixing rolls the condom off him with fingers still covered in his own come; Jongdae watches through a haze and frenzy, watches him throw it carelessly to the side without even looking, holds Yixing's gaze—frantic, _needy—_ as he ducks and takes Jongdae's cock in his mouth, all the way in, so deep Jongdae feels the flutter of his throat around the tip, feels his lips circle tight around the base. His hands clench on the covers beneath him and something rips in him, deep in his stomach. He comes so hard his vision whites out and every sound in the room—his own moans, the slurping of Yixing's mouth—feels like it's coming from outside a wall of glass, his skin made of liquid heat.

Jongdae comes down from it in stages, slow and floaty, can feel Yixing's tongue against the tip of his cock, the flat of it as he licks everything clean. He feels the press of his lips against the underside, the grooves of his hips, the tops of his thighs. He's murmuring again, soft and gentle, Jongdae's name clicking through the fog in his mind. He opens his eyes; everything's a lot brighter than it should be, he thinks.

"Jongdae," Yixing says, mouth still in the dip of his hip. "Fuck, Jongdae."

Jongdae can't trust his tongue to let any words out. It's thick in his mouth. He unclenches one of his hands from the sheets and lazily pats Yixing's shoulder, the side of his face. Yixing presses his mouth to his palm—there's a smile on it—and a single kiss to the center before he pulls away, crawling up the bed to peek at Jongdae.

"Did I break you," he asks. His smile is pretty, genuine in a way Jongdae has yet to get used to seeing. "You look kinda broken."

"Feel broken," Jongdae manages to get out. He smacks his lips together, feels spent in a way he's never felt before. The whole years' worth of stress has evaporated, he's more tired and sore that he's willing to admit but he also feels a lot lighter. "Feels good, though."

Yixing kisses the ball of his shoulder. "I'm gonna get something to clean you up, okay? Maybe some water, too," he combs fingers through Jongdae's hair, so gently he feels a tug in his chest. "Don't fall asleep yet."

"Can’t promise anything," Jongdae mumbles, and after another sweet kiss of Yixing, on his cheek this time, watches as he picks Jongdae's used condom, leaves the bed, still naked, and pads into the bathroom across the room. When he comes back, Jongdae smiles and waves a hand towards him. "That's a good look on you."

Yixing laughs, handing Jongdae a glass of water. "Get used to it, I hold a no-clothes on weekends rule and I'm strict about it." Jongdae manages to sit up long enough to drink it and then hands it back for Yixing to put on the night stand.

"Tempting," Jongdae admits, lying back down. He lets Yixing clean him up with a wet washcloth and then watches, in sick fascination, as Yixing cleans himself up with a second one, his fingers gentle around the skin of his loose hole. He winces a little but his eyes are a different story and it makes Jongdae's stomach do a painful swoop.

"Hey," Yixing asks when he's done and he's thrown the towels in a hamper next to his bedside table, "are you hungry? We could reheat that food downstairs."

Jongdae won't move a muscle in the next ten hours if possible. Going downstairs means moving a lot of muscles. "Not hungry," he says, and pulls on one corner of the bedspread to cover himself, where it matters, at least. Yixing makes a snorting sound at this but doesn't say anything. "Are you hungry, though? If you are—"

"No, I'm just asking 'cause I'm a great host," Yixing smiles and lies down next to him. He pulls on the covers until they're both covered to their middles. He rolls his eyes when Jongdae makes a smug face at him.

They look at each other in silence for a bit, Jongdae feels the weight of that stare heavier than it has any right to be, considering they've literally just fucked each other's brains out. He turns on his side to match Yixing's position and smiles at him.

"You know, the case's closed now," he says at last. He curls an arm under the pillow he's using, and Yixing's smile, if possible, grows wider.

"I can finally take you out on a date," Yixing says. The grin on his face is too smug. "Three meal courses, _suits_ , expensive champagne, I'm gonna do it big, Jongdae, you're gonna absolutely fucking hate it. It's gonna be _great_."

Jongdae rolls his eyes, fetching the pillow from under his head so he can cover Yixing's cackling face with it. "I swear to god, I'll lock you in a cell."

Yixing snorts behind it, and somehow his fingers find Jongdae's under the covers. "I'd like to see you try."

 

**Author's Note:**

> i listened to troye sivan's "too good" while writing the actual porn hence the title.


End file.
